


Fear.

by angelsarenamederika



Series: Unwinding Time. [2]
Category: Good Omens
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:45:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3324671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsarenamederika/pseuds/angelsarenamederika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nightmares are often memories gone sour and this is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear.

They’re standing in an art gallery with deep crimson walls and golden orbs of light, set to dim so the edges of canvases and sculptures shimmer softly. Aziraphale stands at his side, shoulders hunched as he squints at the painting in front of them. 

The painting stretches the length of the wall, nearly twenty feet in width and eight feet in height. 

The title printed on a small white slip beneath the frame:

_Garden of Eden._

Half the painting is nothing more than shadows, revealing only the tops of trees in moonlight. The trees — all different kinds, birch, pine, oak, maple and many more — surround a clearing. The flanks of rabbits and foxes, elks and wolves can be glimpsed by firelight. In the center of the painting, a man and woman lay nestled togther, their dark skin gleaming in the light. The man's arm is looped around her shoulders, her head tucked underneath his jaw. Her eyes are closed and arms laid over a swollen belly. 

Behind them, a tree rises from the darkness. It's trunk gnarled and branches sagging beneath the weight of apples. The farthest branch extends a few feet above the couple, a bright green apple dangling from the stem. A serpent coils around the branch, head poised on the bark above the apple. It's yellow eyes linger on the flames, on the length of silver tucked away beneath burning twigs and ashes. 

A crease forms between Aziraphale's eyebrows. He pulls his hand from his pocket, leans forward and presses his thumb to the canvas besides the snake's head. The paint withers and retreats underneath his touch. 

He lifts his hand, a thumb print sized section of clean canvas now visible. The serpent unwinds from around the branch and arches, eyes narrowed as the scales around it's nose begin to ripple. The scales bronze hue drains away, body momentarily translucent until a shade of emerald seeps through, starting at the head and ending with the tail. The serpent's tongue flicks and the canvas vibrates with a silent hiss, it's body lowers and winds around the branch. The empty space besides its head vanishing in strokes of navy. 

“There,” Aziraphale says, straightening up and slipping his hand back into his pocket. “I'd always thought they’d gotten your scales wrong.” 

Crowley shakes his head, raises an eyebrow and turns towards the angel. 

“I left room for the artist's interpretations.” He says, the edges of his lips curling in a smirk.

But Aziraphale is gone. 

Crowley blinks and glances over his shoulder, the gallery behind him is empty. The scuffing of his shoes on dusty hardwood floors the only sound. He reminds himself to breathe and turns back to the painting. The serpent's head rises, eyes drifting from the flames to Crowley, pupils dilating. Crowley swallows, steps back, turns around and walks down the hall on his right. The lights above fading with each step. 

The next room is illuminated by neon blue tubes set into the ceiling, the corners of the room lost to shadows. Distant canvases and sculptures draped in dark fabric. 

"Aziraphale?" His voice rings out, echoes in his ears.

He walks forward and the lights above him shatter. He glances up in time to watch the glass splinter, the shards glint and glimmer as they fall, wires whipping down, light peeling back along the cords. He dips his head, glass sprinkling his shoulders and the breeze from the wire slicing at his neck. He's plunged into darkness and as he inhales, something collides with his back, hurls him forward into empty space. His breath hitches in his throat and he gags, slamming against the floor. He rolls to a stop on his side and stares as the scene replays.

Fragments of glass ascend from the floor and meld togther, wires tuck into reformed tubes that settle into outlets. The neon lights blossom, hum softly.

The hall that he came from is sealed, nothing more than empty wall.

He staggers to his feet, drags a hand through his hair and tugs at the ends. He scans the room, his gaze snagging on darkened forms hanging from crimson walls. The back of his neck suddenly slick with sweat, he releases the ends of his hair and clenches his hands in fists. 

_"Aziraphale!"_ He shouts. 

His skin is singing, stretched too taunt. His features contort into a snarl, nails digging into his palms. A strangled scream plummets from his lips.

The wall across from him dissolves, revealing a hall beyond. He dashes across the room, leaps over semi-liquified plaster and finds himself running the length of a sunlit corridor. The windows on his right reveals a pale blue sea blending seamlessly into the sky. The far bank marked by trees — pine, birch, oak and maple. An aged mahogany door guards the end of the passage. He skids to a stop, snatches at the handle and yanks his hand back, hissing as the iron recedes from white-hot to an unassuming plain appearance. 

He inhales sharply and grabs the handle again, tugs it open and slithers through.

He’s in a cathedral.

He curls his fingers, rubs at the scorned skin of his palm until the slick wounds become smooth and soft. A glass dome stands several feet from the door, the figure within turning to face him as the door behind them snaps shut. 

Her skin is violet. Her feet drag along the floor as she saunters over, hips swaying and hands falling from prayer. She stops a few inches from the glass, lays a hand against the surface and raises her other hand, palm upturned. A plaque and podium materialize from the polished marble floor before her. She flips her hand over and flicks her fingers, white lettering peeling from the plaque and flitting about. Crowley's steps forward and she flicks her hand again. The letters still, settling into formation: 

_Welcome To Gallery 42:_

EXHIBITS AVAILABLE: 

**\- FORGOTTEN GODS.**

**\- OTHER DEITIES.**

**\- FALLEN ANGELS.**

His gaze falls flat on the last choice, pinpricks of pressure mounting behind his eyes. She inclines her head, lips curving in a small, gentle smile. She blinks. Her eyes are a stark white completely devoid of irises or pupils. She draws back an arm and points to her left, but he’s suspended on the spot. She blinks again and her head tilts to the side, then falls off her neck entirely.

There’s no blood. No flayed flesh. No mess. It’s gone before it reaches the floor and from her severed neck, flames erupt. They twist and howl and holy light surges through him. He wrenches himself from the spot, sprints to the hall on his left, foot falls resonating against the floor. He starts to turn the corner but halts at the sound of shattering glass, watches as a sea of diamonds unfolds from within the case and washes out over the marble. The woman’s gone. 

The corridor ends in another cathedral. He passes through an empty doorway and his breathe slips from his lungs. His shoulders slacken and his legs quake, knees threatening to buckle. The adjacent wall is lit with floor to ceiling windows. The back wall consumed by a circular stained glass window, interlocking sections of pale blue and lilac fractured by streaks of sunlight.

Beneath the stained glass, a set of ruffled wings is mounted to the wall. 

He takes a set of steps down to the main floor, the tremors in his legs ceasing on the last step. The wings are stretched taunt, thirty feet from tip to tip. Long, thin chestnut feathers brush their opposing walls, these feathers give way to a smattering of bronze and fluffy gray-white feathers. The joints — that would've been spliced to shoulders — are bare, strands of skin dangling off pale pink flesh. Clumps of feathers coat the floor, a few still hang but others are bent backwards, snapped in half or just distorted. In front the wings, a glass case stands.

Within the case, a figure wilts amongst the branches of a gnarled tree. Rope wrapped around his wrists binds him to the edges of the branches. His legs sag against the body of the tree. A white sheet is tucked around his waist but aside from that he's bare, the tops of his hip bones jutting from the fabric. Trickles of blood slip along his ribs, drip into the bark. His head lolls forward, features shielded by thick blond curls. Crowley strides forward until he’s an inch from the glass. He raises a hand, fingers poised to touch then lets it drop. 

Crowley tilts his head back, stares up into the figure's features. His eyes are closed. Crowley dips his head, raises a hand to his face and digs at the corners of his eyes, drops it after a few beats and stares at the bottom of the case. The trunk is bathed in a dark, shimmering liquid, streams flowing from the bark, feathers sprinkled through it all. The roots are concealed in layers of moss and grass. An apple, it's innards nothing more than mush, spills out onto the grass.

His hands curl into fists and he glances back up into the figure's features.

The angel's eyes are open. Drained indigo pouring into stained yellow. Their chests rise in the same moment and they both begin to breath. 

Something tears into existence on the edge of Crowley’s vision — the silhouette of a human figure forged by blood red flames. On his other side the same being reappears but in a lighter shade, something closer to gold. His eyes flick over the angel's face and when the angel's lips part, the voice produced does not come from him but rather the two figures on either side of Crowley. 

“THIZZ IZ WHAT HE ZZHALL BECOME,” Buzzes the first. 

“BECAUSE OF YOU.” Intones the second. 

The angel’s jaw clenches and the lights on both sides churn, flicker and vanish. When he speaks, he speaks in his own voice, clear and crisp and with an undertone of _home_.

“There is no saving me.” 

A tingling sensation grows in the tips of Crowley's fingers, slinks up his wrists and starts to unhinge him from within. He raises a hand, palm skimming the surface of the glass. He blinks and the glass begins to dissolve, his hand falling into the dry air within, a distant pressure increasing on his wrist with each passing second.

Then the glass is gone, followed by the blades of grass and clumps of moss. The floor beneath him gives way and through slitted vision he watches the roots of the tree wither. The pillar of it's body crumbles into darkness and the last thing he glimpses are the angel's features, indigo eyes trained on him, light fading from their depths, his skin gleams in pools of sunlight, a sharp white ring around the edges. 

His eyelids click open and he’s staring at the decaying ceiling of their bedroom. Sections of plaster peeled back by time, revealing the foam and support beams underneath. The mattress dips beside him, a hand falls over his chest, fingers fan across his bounding heart. Aziraphale scoots closer, leans in until his forehead bumps against Crowley’s jaw, blond curls brushing damp cheeks. 

“My dear?” He whispers, breath coasting over skin and Crowley swallows, the noise thick and loud and wet. “Crowley?” He adds in the next breath. Crowley fumbles, lifts a hand from his side and lays it over Aziraphale’s, presses a thumb underneath the angel's wrist. His eyes drift shut and he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, exhales and a tremor blossoms in his chest but his grip on Aziraphale's pulse remains steady. 

“Just a bad dream, angel.” He hisses, eyes dragging open, sticky around the edges. He blinks a few times, ignores the warm droplets as they trickle down the sides of his temples. He cranes his head, fabric rustling beneath him. Aziraphale shifts, hand pressing down on Crowley's chest as he raises his head. His eyes open and features soft. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” He asks, his hand drifting upwards, settling in the dip between neck and shoulder. His thumb rubs small circles until the tension in Crowley's shoulders seeps into the mattress. Crowley inhales, squeezes his angel's hand and begins to speak.

The sea rises with his words, brings them out when it recedes.

**Author's Note:**

> They don’t go to art galleries for quite some time after that.


End file.
